Management Myths
by med-anomaly
Summary: House is forced to share things about his pain and its management that he'd rather not in the name of legal defense. Set after episode 3X8. HW
1. Chapter 1

Wilson sat stewing at the bus stop. He couldn't believe House had just driven on by. But at the same time he wasn't exactly surprised. How had things gotten so screwed up? He was living in a hotel, accounts frozen, car gone, practice suffering, and now, he was losing House too. The weight of how far his life had fallen from where he once thought it would be was crushing. Even when he had decided that the only things that worked for him were work and his relationship with House, he felt he had something. Now, even that was in jeopardy.

House couldn't stop thinking about Wilson sitting on the bench waiting for the bus. He had been right about one thing. The onus was now on House to "do something." He pulled his bike up in the garage of his building instead of the sidewalk, to avoid getting a ticket. He paused for the briefest moment, dug out his cell phone and searched his contact list for her number. He selected it with a withering sigh and then climbed into the vette. He put the phone on speaker and started on his way back to the hospital, as he waited for her to pick up.

"Hello," she said in a curious unassuming tone.

"Stacy, it's Greg. I, I need to see you," his voice was strained, this was harder than he thought it would be.

"What's going on?" she was genuinely curious, and a little concerned, after the send off Greg had given her, she hadn't really expected to hear from him.

"I need some legal advice. I need a meeting. Can you come out here?"

She couldn't refuse him. He hadn't refused her when she came to him for help, and she knew if he was asking for help, the situation must be dire.

"Yeah, I can be there in a couple of hours."

"Okay" he said matter-of-factly, reaching over and clicking his phone closed with his left hand, the pain in his right shoulder forbidding too much movement.

He pulled up to the hospital and made a U-turn to pass by on the same side the bus would. Wilson was still the only one sitting on the bench, and he'd have looked downright pitiful if House had had any pity left to give. But he didn't, he had truth and he had the feeling of wanting to set things right, and he had sadness about what his life had become, but that was nothing new. Wilson was looking off in the distance, eyes unfocused when he pulled up. House came to a stop and stared at his friend, waiting for him to look over. After a few long moments, brown met blue and the two men found themselves staring into each other's eyes having a wordless conversation like so many they had had before.

"Come on," House said quietly, beseechingly.

Wilson sighed, bringing his hand to his head, tracing his brow, he gave the slightest nod, "Yeah," he said pulling his lips into a straight line. He got in. He had nowhere else to go, and truth be told nowhere else he wanted to be.

They drove along in silence for a few minutes until House broke it.

"I did something."

"O-kay," Wilson said waiting for House to offer more.

"I called Stacy. She'll be here in a couple of hours."

"Okay," Wilson said with more certainty, quietly supporting House, as was his way.

They were silent the rest of the way back to House's building. House parked in the handicapped spot and they quietly entered the apartment. House tossed the keys on the table, shrugged out of his jacket, wincing when he had to move his injured wing, and settled in on the couch, leaning forward in his seat, resting his chin on his cane. Wilson recognized this posture, it was House's 'I'm feeling the repercussions of my actions and have something to say' position, so he waited to hear what House had to say. He looked at House expectantly.

House looked up and met his eyes, "I'm sorry," House said so quietly that if Wilson hadn't seen it in his eyes he might have doubted it had been uttered at all.

Wilson had nothing to offer, but a clipped, "yeah."

Having said what he wanted to say, House struggled up and made his way to the bedroom, "work to do," he said in explanation.

Wilson just sat on the couch.

House didn't really have work to do. He already knew everything he needed to know for this case, for his case. He already knew that between him and Stacy, they'd figure something out. He also already knew that that something would probably entail him being lane bare and vulnerable, and having to seek some sort of therapy to make it fly. He knew it might mean he'd have to stop practicing for a time, but better him than Wilson, which seemed to be the choice he was given.

Despite what others may think of him, he knew he didn't have a conversion disorder, nor did he think he was a true addict, not the way everyone else thought he was. If he were, there would be no pills left for the cops to find in his place. He was addicted to not being in pain. He was addicted to not feeling impotent and vulnerable at every turn. Maybe his fear of pain was unhealthy, but then so was having to live with it every moment of every day. The truth of his own words echoed in his head.

"Pain makes us make bad decisions. Fear of pain is almost as big a motivator."


	2. Chapter 2

**Part 2**

House decided a long, hot shower was in order. He turned the shower on as soon as he entered the bathroom, letting it work up a good steam before stepping inside. The searing liquid pellets left red marks in their wake, but the momentary pain soon melted into relaxing relief. He tried to massage his right shoulder a bit with his left hand, but could only manage it in brief spurts. Balancing on just his left leg proved tricky in the slick stall. He let the heat and rush of the shower lull him slightly, focusing only on the warmth. He needed to clear his head and shore himself up for what was to come.

Wilson sat staring straight ahead on the couch, languishing in the small comforts of being in a home. It was the closest he'd felt to being at home since he'd moved out months earlier. He had always felt like a guest at Grace's, slightly out of place. The hotel didn't have anything homey about it. The solitary room with the perfectly made bed at the center of it, mocked him daily, reminding him that he had no one to share it with.

He heard the sound of the shower. As angry as he was with House, he welcomed the feeling that he was not alone. He was almost too weary to stay mad. It was pathetic really. House's lame apology was almost enough for him. Everyone teased House about the fact that Wilson was his only friend; what they missed was the fact that Wilson's life was just as empty. Sure, he was well-liked. He had plenty of people who thought he was pleasant and wouldn't mind grabbing a cup of coffee with him, but that was it. He had his share of "girlfriends," but they were casual flings. They were acquaintances, not friends. The relationships lacked depth and closeness. House was his family.

Wilson had been so deep in thought it took him a moment to react to the sound. He was wondering if he had really just heard a crash from the bathroom when a very loud, very angry shout followed. "FUCK," House yelled. "Shit," Wilson said under his breath, already up off the couch and making his way to the bathroom door.

House had been going over some of the studies he planned to bring up when he talked to Stacy. The heat had helped ease the overworked muscles in his right leg and gave him the confidence to try to knead his shoulder a bit with his left hand. The balancing act that had proven tricky earlier was literally his downfall. He reached out for the grab rail when he felt himself slipping, but the damn thing was on his right side. The shoulder injury made it impossible for him to grab on as quickly and fiercely as he needed to stay vertical. Thinking fast he tried to angle so that his left side would take the brunt of the fall, but he slid down so quickly, it was hard to tell if it had helped at all.

"Fuck," he growled out, cursing his damn weakness as his body made contact with the hard porcelain floor. He lay there flat on his back. The water that had been so pleasing earlier when he was upright was now irritatingly angled straight at his face. He lay motionless for a moment, dazed, the wind completely knocked out of him. Then he felt it. He groaned with the shock of the pain. He sputtered as he lifted his head, to get his face out of the direct stream of water, and became aware of something else.

"House? Are you okay in there?" Wilson asked maintaining a steady knock on the door.

"House?"

House wished he could just melt into the porcelain. He was utterly frustrated with the situation. He knew Wilson would break the damn door down with this caring if he didn't say something, but he just couldn't will the air into his lungs. Pa-freakin-thetic, he thought to himself. He couldn't even call out to pretend he was fine. He shut his eyes when he heard the door knob turning. This was definitely not what he had in mind when he thought of being joined in the shower.

"Shit," Wilson said under his breath again as he took in the scene before him. House was laying on the floor of the shower, seemingly unconscious. He saw the water was streaming into House's face and went to shut if off before kneeling at his friend's side. He grabbed House's wrist, and was relieved to find a strong steady pulse, but was concerned at how fast it was. "House," he called loudly as he gently shook his friend. The blue eyes cracked open.

"I've fallen and I can't get up," House tried to muse, but his voice was still weak and quiet.

Wilson smiled a small relieved smile. No matter what the circumstance, House was always House. He didn't like how weak his friend's voice was though or how every drop of color had drained from his face. He could hear how shallow and quick House's respirations where and he immediately went into clinical mode. "Did you hit your head House?"

"The back of it…hit the ground, but not too hard. There'll be a bump, but no concussion." House's speech was halting and he was beginning to shiver. He turned his head to the side and started to wretch. He didn't bring anything up, but he was done he was breathing hard each breath coming out with a chuff at the end. He felt like he would soon pass out from the pain.

"You're looking pretty shocky, I'm gonna go grab my bag. Want to try sitting up?" Wilson was quietly assessing House's status. His mental functions seemed normal, as normal as they ever were anyway, but his breathing was too shallow and rapid and his pulse was racing. Wilson grabbed the towel that was on the rack and laid it between House's chest and his knees. House was definitely out of it. He was hardly aware of Wilson's presence and looked like he might pass out. Whether or not House was willing to venture sitting up would be a good test of how severely he was hurt.

"Pills" House quietly croaked out. House could feel himself slipping, losing hold of what was around him. This wasn't the loud, screaming kind of pain. This was the strong, unrelenting 'I'm gonna kick your ass so hard, you're not going to have any strength left' kind of pain.

Wilson made a grab for House's jacket and pulled out two pills. He rushed them over to House, but the other man was already starting to pass out. Wilson shook him gently. Pure misery reflected in his eyes as he awoke. Wilson placed the pills in House's open palm. House shut his eyes tight as he sucked on them before swallowing. "I'm going to go grab my bag now House. Stay with me, okay?"

House grimaced in response. Wilson hurried back with his bag. He took out his penlight and checked House's pupils. They were equal and reactive. "Can you give me a pain rating House?" Silence. "Come on House, this'll be easier if you just tell me."

"Eight."

"Where does it hurt?" House opened his eyes, which had been screwed shut, and gave him a patented 'you've got to be kidding, no one's that big of a moron' look.

"Right, besides your leg, where does it hurt? Do you think you broke or sprained anything?"

"No." House wanted nothing more than to be left alone. He didn't want anyone seeing him like this, not even Wilson.

"Okay, that's good. I'm going to go grab you a robe. I'll be right back."

Wilson took his time getting back to the bathroom. House didn't look like he was going to pass out again and his injuries didn't seem too severe. He was close enough to hear if he was needed, but wanted to give his friend some time to recover on his own. He waited a full five minutes after fishing out the robe. "You look better," he said as he walked back in.

House was starting to become more aware as the shock wore off and the vicodin began taking the edge off the pain. He would have been able to handle it if it hadn't been for the blasted shoulder, he thought to himself.

"You know those stupid rubber things you made me get for the floor are as useless as they are hideous," House quipped. "Better warn Grandma Wilson." Yes, he was definitely feeling much better, aside from the whole laid up on the shower floor still naked and wet thing.

"I'll get right on that. Right after I work on the whole no car, no money, can't do my job thing. You ready to try sitting up?" Wilson asked a bit of annoyance creeping into his voice. His patience for House was stretched thin.

"As hot as the thought of you and me in the shower is," House licked his lips comically. "Get out." Wilson eyed him for a moment before consenting. He wouldn't be going far. No matter how much he wanted to throttle House for the whole prescription mess, he couldn't just turn off caring about the bastard.

"I'm gonna go order a pizza," Wilson said as he exited. "You're buying," he hollered over his shoulder.


	3. Chapter 3

**Part 3**

Wilson's exit was exactly the kind of thing that made House keep him around. As soon as House told him he could manage, he moved on from the fact that House had just fallen on his ass and passed out from pain. He may not have had a good grasp of the difference between dependence and addiction, but he always understood House's need for independence and space. House figured another five minutes for the Vicodin to take full effect and he'd be back on his feet.

Getting up was complicated by the pain in his shoulder, but now that it had been dialed back a few notches and the leg had quieted down he felt ready to venture on. He used his left side and back to sidle up the wall till he was sitting with his back against it. He then drew his legs up to his chest and brought the left one over the little raised edge of the shower turning his body with it and used his hands to help the right one along side it. He took a break before grabbing the cane and getting to his feet. He pulled on the robe Wilson had brought in and felt the warmth and security he had brought with it. He knew just how much worse this could have been if he were alone. It had happened before. He grabbed the cane, planted his left leg on the floor and struggled to his feet.

Wilson made his way to the phone to order them a pizza. He knew the best thing he could do for House, and himself, right now was give him space. He felt sick with himself. It wasn't that he had doubted that House was in pain, but he hadn't seen it up close like that in a long time. It was like a slap in the face. He felt cold inside. Here he was trying to get the man to take fewer pain killers when a simple slip and fall made him damn near pass out. A part of him knew that it was easier to think that House had a problem with the pills than to feel House really was in that much pain. None of that changed the fact that he had betrayed him, and was a self-centered ass one of the few times he actually needed him to make good on his end of their friendship though. He ran the fingers of his free hand back and forth across his forehead as he dialed the number to the pizzeria.

He turned on the TV and put it on mute so he'd be able to hear if House needed help. He idly flipped through the Tivo list to see if there was anything decent on it. He moved to the kitchen when he heard House emerge from the bathroom and enter his bedroom. Wilson put on a pot of coffee, more to busy his hands than anything else, all thoughts on House, and Stacy's impending visit.

Once in his room, House pulled on some clothes and lay down. He had renewed appreciation for his bed. He grabbed his alarm clock. Realizing he had about an hour before Stacy was set to arrive, he set an alarm for a forty five minute nap and lay back.

Wilson poured a cup of the freshly brewed coffee and filled a water glass. Despite himself, he wanted to make sure House was all right, and food and beverage were always useful aids. He couldn't stand the sight of the man at the moment, but that didn't mean he wasn't concerned. He figured the drinks would distract House and make him less likely to slam the door in his face.

House began drifting off immediately. Pain was exhausting. It was why he found himself forced to nap to get through the day more often than he cared for. He was enjoying the brief moments on the cusp of sleep when he heard an all too familiar knock and Wilson pushing open the slightly ajar door. House chided himself. Years of living alone had him out of practice at shutting and locking doors.

"Sleeping in here," he said without bothering to open his eyes.

"Thought you might want something to drink, just put on a fresh pot." House looked fine. He seemed tired and worn, but fine. The anger that the concern had overridden was edging forth again.

"Not thirsty, sleepy," House whined.

"Yes, well, next time put a picture on your door of which of the seven dwarves you're feeling at one with, and I won't have to bother you with trivial things like fluids," Wilson's tone was tinged with the anger he felt toward House and toward himself for having to fight to stay mad at the man.

"Oh please, I could get pictures of all the seven dwarves and wear one at all times and it probably wouldn't even put a dent in your mother-hen act." Wilson couldn't possibly think he'd believe this little visit was about coffee.

"Hmm…that might be hard considering sarcastic, caustic, and obsessive never made it into the famed seven. Poor dopey and grumpy would be overworked."

"Good thing cartoon labor laws aren't enforceable in New Jersey." House grabbed a pill bottle from his night stand and shook out a pill. "Coffee later, water now," he said extending his hand not bothering to look at Wilson. He didn't need to look at Wilson to know the expression he wore. "And don't give me that look. Yes, I had two pills a half hour ago, and I went from an eight to a six. No, I don't think that's a tolerable level, especially, when I have to strategize with my ex to try to keep _my_ ass out of jail and _your's_ in expensive pants. You get to be at a zero all damn day without having to endure hurt little 'how could you' and 'holier than thou' looks or snide comments." House rarely got into the details of his pain like this, but he knew all of the things he was going to have to tell Stacy for this to work. There was no reason to hold back now.

"Oh no," Wilson replied drawing out the words and gesticulating with his free hand. "You make damn sure I don't get to do anything without having to endure snide comments," there was a bite in Wilson's tone, but House's words had hit him. He wasn't a door mat, but the urge to smack House had dissipated after his body did such a bang up job of putting him in agony. "Do you want me to tell you when the pizza gets here?" he asked in a still sharp, but resigned tone.

House looked at him with 'What do you think?' written all over his face, "Just wake me when snow white arrives," he said shutting his eyes and leaning back.

Wilson couldn't shake what House had said as he walked back toward the living room. He was constantly trying to catch up to zero, to try to beat out the pain. The shorter time intervals between pills, the greater number of pills, it all made a hell of a lot more sense when he thought of it from the perspective of trying to reach zero.

Zero meant no pain. Zero was where everyone else got to be all the time. Zero was where House used to be, where he was when the Ketamine was working. Medically Wilson knew House wouldn't get there with Vicodin. That was why he had never looked at it that way. House was trying to catch up to a Ferrari that had a head start in a beat-up old jalopy, the Vicodin his only vehicle, the limp and the cane evidence that he hadn't caught it.

Damn it, he was supposed to be angry with House not feeling sympathy for him. This didn't mean he wasn't still abusing the pills. He had still stolen a prescription pad. House's apology, seeing him in pain, the fact that he said he was fighting for what Wilson had lost in this too, understanding his perspective better - none of it erased what he had done, but it did change things. Damn the man and his ability to worm his way back toward my good graces, Wilson thought to himself. He had perfectly valid reason to be totally pissed, but he was now only partially pissed. Tasting the loss of the friendship while sitting in his office and then at the bus stop earlier that evening had shown Wilson that as bitter and acerbic as House was, dissolving their friendship was downright nauseating. He was beginning to understand that sometimes we have to forgive others to save ourselves hurt.


	4. Chapter 4

**Part 4**

Wilson sat on the couch trying to let the TV numb his mind while he waited for the pizza. He set down the coffee and opted for a beer to help keep his mind from going into overdrive. He wanted desperately to push aside all things unpleasant for a time, to just relax, but he couldn't. He was good at accepting what was and even finding the positive in most situations, but only after completely overanalyzing every aspect involved.

The fact was that just because House had been wrong didn't mean Wilson was right. In fact, when such a colossal mess as the one they were in was borne, there was usually very little righteousness to go around. He began to doubt his actions toward and his perceptions of his friend. He wondered when exactly he started to believe so strongly that he knew what was best for House. Maybe it was when House stopped caring so much about himself; maybe a part of Wilson thought he could care enough about House and his life for the both of them.

He was starting to see his actions through a different lens. He genuinely wanted what was best for House, but wanting what was best and knowing what was best were not the same thing. And knowing what was best and knowing how to help, were also not the same thing. It was all becoming so much clearer now. He even began to doubt his motives. He had thought they were purely to help House, but now he wondered if a part of why he wanted to help House was for himself, to help bring his friend back. The friend he remembered from years before. House had changed, but then so had he.

He was pushing House the same way his parents had pushed his brother. He did not want to lose House in the same way. Pushing him away was the last thing he wanted to do. But he couldn't just sit by and do nothing watching House spiral downward over the years. He was going to have to restrain himself and keep an open mind till his part in this was sorted out in his head. For now, he needed a break. Going in circles, jumping from these thoughts to thoughts of how sad and lonely his life really wasn't accomplishing anything but bringing him down. He needed to put these thoughts down until his head was clear. He was content to focus on the screen for now.

He was halfway through an episode of Black Adder when he heard a knock on the door. He had already opened the door and was reaching for his wallet when he realized he didn't have any money. He told the delivery man he'd be right back and went to fish out House's wallet.

He could hear House snoring lightly and tried to be stealthy as he pulled out a twenty. House was on high alert for Stacy's arrival and his eyes shot open when he heard Wilson enter. Wilson was unaware of this, and left to get the pizza. Hunger pangs made themselves known and he began to salivate as soon as he smelled it at the door. Wilsons were not meant to live on peanut butter and jelly alone.

House shifted slightly, testing out the extent of his injuries from the fall. With a sigh he turned the alarm off and got up. He groaned inwardly as the bruises and soreness that were taking up residence announced their presence. He eased up, grabbed the ankle support he sometimes wore and a good pair of sneakers from the closet. He slowly made his way to the brown trashcan and pulled out its lone content, a pristine white binder that was among the things discarded when the Ketamine treatment failed. He then pulled a file folder out of his bedside table. He stared at the items in his hand for a good while, a myriad of emotions passing through him as he tried to accept what he had to do, what he had tried to avoid doing for so long. He hobbled to the living room his gait worse than usual after the fall. He said nothing to Wilson who was devouring the pizza. He pulled some papers out of his backpack and added them to the binder before plunking it down on the table and all but collapsing on the couch.

Wilson observed his friend quietly. Exhaustion wore heavily on House as he leaned his head back and closed his eyes, and his gait was devoid of its usual (or rather unusual) grace. The papers and binder before him interested Wilson most though. He stared at the binder wondering what it housed.

House kept his head back but opened his eyes, "You staying?" he asked.

"Reason I shouldn't?" Wilson responded, not sure if he should offer House privacy for the meeting with Stacy or indulge his curiosity and his desire to make sure the two didn't fall back into bed together.

House gave a small shrug and winced slightly at the shoulder movement. Sighing loudly, he was getting sick of having to restrict his movements even more than usual.

"You know some doctors recommend chewing before swallowing. You'd think you never saw food before." He could have mentioned that Wilson had a drop of orange-tinged pizza oil on his chin, but decided against it. Let the man be embarrassed when Stacy saw it if he insisted on staying.

"Well, it is rare that I get to have food without you plotting to steal it out from under me." Wilson quipped.

"Oh, I think it's fair to say you're the expert when it comes to plotting." House drew out the last word. He didn't really want to fight with Wilson. He was going through much of this so they could just get back to their version of normal, but it gave him something to focus on besides the pain, the legal battle or Stacy.

Wilson nudged the pizza box toward House knowing that the other man would get that he not only meant "Do you want some pizza?" but also, "Yeah, so we both play a part in why this friendship is so screwed up. Can we agree to put that away for now?" The pair was well-practiced at conveying a lot without saying anything. There was a comfort and beauty in the way they communicated. In many ways, it was a secret language shared just between the two of them.

House lifted his head off the couch to turn and really look at Wilson. For a moment, House let emotions of hurt, pain, remorse and anxiety flash through before turning back to neutral. "That offer for coffee still good?" Wilson took it as the rejection of pizza and acceptance to put the argument away for the time being that it was and let some warmth enter into his own gaze.

"Yeah, I need another beer anyway," falling right back into the dance of doing things for House without making it obvious that that's what was happening. It was their way. They both knew what was really going on, but the pretense was as much a part of their dynamic as anything else. They both needed a respite from fighting with each other because when you fight with your best friend, you have no one to turn to or confide in about it. Or in House's case, no one to bitch to or throw stuff off the roof with.

Wilson returned with the coffee to find House nodding off. He touched the mug to House's hand letting the warmth connect them for a moment. Just as they had conversation without words they felt without touching flesh to flesh, allowing clothing and coffee mugs to be vessels of contact. House blinked rapidly and forcefully a few times before taking the mug in his left hand.

"What's in the binder?" Wilson finally asked after he finished eating.

"I don't want to have to repeat myself. We'll go through it when Stacy gets here." Wilson knew this was not a point to argue. House looked again at the binder that contained hours of diligent research and writing, and the file, his file, knowing that once he showed them to Wilson things were bound to change, he just wasn't sure how.

"You're seriously not eating?" Wilson marveled as he gathered the pizza and things off the table.

"Do you see Hungry pinned to my shirt?"

"Uh, no, but I don't see Grumpy there either and we both know that's an oversight. I just can't believe you didn't try to steal anything off my plate."

"Stealing loses its thrill when I'm the one paying for the food." Wilson smirked slightly in response before clearing everything away. Pain, pills, and anxiety had stolen away any appetite House might have had. He raised the volume on the TV and they didn't speak again, it wasn't their usual amiable silence, but each admitted to himself that it was far better than the silence of ignoring or being without one another.

They were midway through a second episode of Black Adder when Stacy knocked on the door. House turned off the TV and Wilson went to answer the door. House tried to get every guard up he had while he overheard them exchanging pleasantries, smirking to himself when Stacy commented on the pizza smudge.

"Greg," she said in a tone ripe with varying emotions, as if she were unsure which one to settle upon.

"Stacy," he countered coolly not meeting her eyes. Wilson just looked between them witnessing them turn the exchange of names into a conversation complete with body language footnotes. They had always played mind games, but then that was part of all of House's relationships.

"I'm here."

"Ah, so you decided not to send a hologram, excellent. You want some coffee or something?" He was stalling.

"I'm fine," Stacy's curiosity was fully piqued. Something big was afoot. "How are you?" she asked caringly. Greg would always be an important part of her life, of her.

"I've got a Neanderthal cop dedicating himself to making my life hell, but other than that I'm just great." House would have none of that caring if he could avoid it. It would be bad enough after she read through his notes and all the pain management articles. Understanding spread across Stacy's face. House was getting right to business.

"I'm sure you didn't do anything to provoke him. That would be so unlike you."

"Yes, well, I've always had respect for order and authority, especially, men in uniform; what with them being my father's brethren." he said with a smirk and then turned serious. "This guy trumped up drug charges from the Vicodin." He opened the binder and handed over a stapled document. "Here. My copies of all the reports and things." He took in the sight of her as she read them over noting the absent wedding ring when she sat on the far end of the couch and then focused intently on the binder that still lay in front of him. Wilson found himself staring dumbly at the empty television screen as he stood not wanting to leave, but having nothing to do there.

"Greg, you need a criminal lawyer." Stacy said after a few minutes sounding peeved.

"Already have one. I thought a different angle might be in order. I've seen how you work. You don't take up a case; you take down your opponent. Plus, the defense I was thinking of could benefit from a Constitutional lawyer."

"Okay," she said clearly waiting for more.

"Here," he said handing over the binder and file. "Read through these. You'll see what I was thinking." He wanted to have to talk about this as little as possible.

Stacy looked at him questioningly and audibly released a breath as she took it. "I think I'll take that cup of coffee now."

Wilson stared at House with a flash of anger, exasperation and hurt, but mostly, House thought he just looked like a lost wounded puppy. He was sure Wilson thought he came across angrier and tougher than he really did. He lowered his head. He knew Wilson wanted in on the file and binder. "You might as well look the stuff over too. Stacy's bound to have questions. The more of them you answer, the less I have to."

"Greg, what is all this?" Stacy was genuinely curious. There was a fair amount of material to read through and she didn't know what to make of it. Greg was always so cryptic when it came to himself. House waited as long as he could without pissing her off before answering. He still remembered where her buttons were and for a change, he was trying to avoid them.

"The file is a medical file on myself I started shortly after the infarction. It's sparse mostly med. dosages, pain ratings, alternatives attempted, etcetera. The binder is research for an article I worked on over the summer. It won't be published, but after the draft and notes for it you'll find most of the articles from its bibliography." His voice was clipped, curt and professional.

Wilson returned coffee in hand. "You mind grabbing my ip-od while you're up?" He handed Stacy her coffee and grabbed the device from the back pack and handed it to House pretending he did it because he was up and not because House had fallen on his ass earlier. He then took a seat on the table midway between them making sure he could keep an eye on both of them.

"Stacy'll fill you in on what that stuff is. You'll fill her in on whatever you can fill her in on. Q and A after you've at least skimmed through all of it because I'm not doling out answers that are already in there." With that House popped in his ear buds to try to lose himself in music and ignore the fact that the two of them were about to be privy to things he had tried so hard to keep hidden away.


	5. Chapter 5

**Part 5**

Stacy explained the contents of the binder and folder to Wilson, and as soon as she mentioned an abandoned research project from the summer, he knew it had to be on Ketamine. He gave Stacy the rundown on the shooting and subsequent Ketamine success and failure. Her eyes were moist when he finished, and he knew that whatever it was that they were doing, it wasn't going to be easy on any of them.

House listened intently to his music, letting the Vicodin he had taken and his exhaustion lull him into a light nap.

Stacy and Wilson poured over the material in front of them. Wilson was shocked by the chart in front of him. It was information he had tried hounding House for for years: Vicodin dosages; alternative pain management methods sought; pain scale ratings over time using the visual analog scale and the typical 1-10 scale; possible explanations for increases and decreases in pain over time and throughout the day. House had been meticulous about documenting just about everything he had absolutely refused to share with anyone since the infarction. The file even included House's personal thoughts on the pros and cons on various pain management methods. Wilson was dumbfounded. He thought he had known his friend so well, but the fact that House had considered and even tried various pain management methods over the years without saying a word had come as a bit of a surprise. He immediately realized it shouldn't have.

He sighed heavily, as the magnitude of all those failed attempts, all the fluctuations in pain, the consultations, and the self-medicating began to hit him. House's righteousness about the Vicodin went far beyond an addict trying to protect his access to his drug of choice, it really was borne of knowledge, experience, and worst of all suffering. He was beginning to understand, and felt guilty that he hadn't understood before. If only, House had shared some of this, any of this sooner.

Some of the entries were downright painful to read. Such as the one documenting increased breakthrough pain dating to before Stacy's departure the year before. He remembered House coming to him for help, and rebuffing him, telling him it was all psychological. Or the entries, scribbled in an angry hand, foretelling the return of the pain when the Ketamine began failing. The line about knowing muscle aches from physical therapy and running and how this differed from the type of pain he was experiencing, the type of pain he had a long-standing history of and so recognized easily, really stung. Wilson was starting to feel sick with himself again.

Stacy paused and looked at him questioningly. "You okay?"

"Yeah," he replied. "How's it coming there?"

"I've got some questions."

Stacy and Wilson discussed the articles and other information that House had given them at length.

"Well, I'm beginning to see what Greg was getting at. There's a lot of research here discussing management of chronic pain, and how long-term opioid use for pain management sharply differs from addiction. In fact, according to some of this research, the initial charge of driving under the influence of narcotics is somewhat unfounded."

"How's that?"

"Well, the warning for prescription hydrocodone states that patients should not drive until they know how the medication affects them. Having taken it for years, House would know full well how it affects him, and the fact that he hasn't had many accidents or moving violations during that time supports that he wasn't really doing anything wrong. It depends on the DA assigned to this, but there's a good chance that just bringing up these issues, the controversy and possibility of bringing in the American with Disabilities Act, and the detective's personal vendetta, will be enough to get the charges dropped. I'll know more tomorrow after I find out more about the case against him, but there's some solid defense here," she said gesturing to the binder.

"Good, that's good," Wilson said, attempting a smile, but having it fall flat.

"What'd the file tell you?"

"Everything I ever wanted to know about House's pain and its management, but now sort of wish I didn't."

"If this proceeds to trial, I'm definitely going to need all the details. It's not necessary at the moment though. I'm hoping the violation of rights and ADA will be enough to keep this from going much further. Realistically, without your testimony most of this stuff is circumstantial and they'll be hard-pressed to find a jury that'll want to put away a pain patient, a doctor no less, for using necessary, prescribed medication."

"Yeah, any chance you've got something in your magic bag of tricks to help me get my prescribing privileges and access to my accounts back?"

"I'll see what I can do. It might take a few days though. I don't usually work criminal cases."  
"Thanks."

She smiled in response. They looked over at the dozing man before them, both overcome with caring and protectiveness. Stacy reached over and touched his arm.

"Greg," she said as she brushed his shirt sleeve.

He winced a bit as he started from the touch, but quickly recovered opening his eyes and pulling out the left ear bud.

"So, what's the verdict?"

"I think you have a pretty solid case. I'm going to find out more about who's in charge of your case on the other side, but I'd be surprised if this makes it to a courtroom."

House nodded.

"I'll know more in the morning. It's getting late, so I'm going to head out, but I'll be in touch," she said rising from her seat.

"Thank you," he said sincerely.

"De nada," she replied, stopping to look into his eyes for a few moments before packing up her things and putting on her coat.

"I'll walk you out," Wilson quickly offered.

"He's having a bad day isn't he?" Stacy asked before leaving.

"He's had better," Wilson replied, knowing exactly what she meant. In the months after the infarction, it had been a question commonly exchanged between them.

"Drive safely and have a good night," he said as they lingered in the doorway.

"I'll give you a call tomorrow morning. Goodnight."

Wilson leaned back against the door trying to gather his bearings after Stacy left. Making sense of everything held in the file was going to take time. It was a lot of information to take in all at once. He shook himself out of his revelry as he heard the TV volume being raised. He knew he was going to have to go back and face House.

He stalled a bit taking his time clearing away the coffee cups and things. "You want anything to eat or drink?" he asked as he headed for the kitchen.

A small shake of House's head was his only response. House was anxious. He wasn't used to feeling so exposed. Wilson knew, and that could not be changed. He tried to focus on the TV taking comfort in the fact that things were at least looking up on the legal front.

Wilson came back and plopped down on the couch, suddenly weary. "So," he said unable to maintain the tenuous silence.

"So. Now, you know," House said slowly.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** H/W from here on. Thanks to T.M.K.06 for speeding up the update process. I think this'll be wrapped up in the next couple of parts, but am pretty open to suggestion. Please feel free to offer up suggestions for what you'd like to see more or less of in this

**Part 6**

"House," Wilson began not quite sure how to continue. House was doing a great job of not paying him any mind, busying himself trying to change position, awkwardly trying to lift his right leg onto the table with his left hand.

"Hand me that cushion from over there, would 'ya?" House's voice was strained with effort.

Wilson let out an exasperated sigh as he moved to help his friend.

"Here," he said as he helped prop the leg up on the cushion. He was about to step away when House grabbed his hand. Their eyes conversed. The deep pools of blue reflected a vulnerability borne of things long-hidden coming to the forefront as the chocolate orbs brimmed with caring and love that had been re-awoken.

The love House saw in Wilson overwhelmed him for a moment as he found himself pulling the young man into a chaste kiss. Wilson allowed himself to be swept into the lip lock for a moment, relishing the intimacy with the man who held everyone at arm's length, relishing feeling close to anyone when just a few hours earlier he had sat at the bus stop feeling utterly and completely alone, relishing feeling at home with his friend. House buried his fingers in Wilson's chestnut mane as flashes of tongue flicked between them. They shared kisses that were at once deep, needy and searching, and full, self-assured and comfortable. It was Wilson who pulled away first. His pragmatic side won out. There were matters at hand that needed to be discussed.

"House we need to talk," he said after a few moments. "Did you really think this was going to be that easy?"

"No, but I figured you might be."

"Well, how sad for you, you figured wrong."

"Come on Jimmy, bedroom's right down the hall there."

"Using that as a ploy to get out of this conversation, means you'll be getting there with me later rather than sooner, if at all," Wilson said seriously as he made his way to the kitchen. He knew that one of them needed to be adult about this.

House's lecherous expression was wiped clean at that comment. He might have thought the kiss would be a convenient out from this conversation that he didn't want to have, but he knew there was much more to be explored there, for both of them.

"Here drink this," Wilson said shoving a glass of juice into his hand. "Your lips are dryer than the Mojave. The last thing I need right now is you dehydrated or hypoglycemic."

"You wound me," House said with mock drama, as he took the glass.

"You'll get over it," replied Wilson, who then dropped all mirth from his expression and grew serious and sincere.

"You could have told me," he said quietly as he looked directly into House's eyes.

"Evidence to the contrary, the fact that I didn't," House replied before growing serious. "No. If I could have, I would have," he said, gaze unwavering. "And, besides, it's not like the times I tried went so well," House said shooting daggers from his eyes. Relying on his years of verbal sparring experience, he knew the best defense was a good offense.

"That's bull," Wilson replied, knowing House's tricks all too well, and that if he let any of his guilt show now, he was a goner. "You insist on having every piece of a puzzle before trying to solve it: you break into people's homes; retake their histories; snoop around in their _personal_ files," Wilson defiantly emphasized the word personal before continuing.

"But then you expect me to react appropriately when you give me hardly any information to go on. I've asked you for that kind of information how many times over the years? I had a right to know. Forget about the fact that we're supposedly friends since I know that's a difficult concept for you, but as your prescribing physician, I had a right to know. You had an obligation to tell me. So no, you don't get to be hurt or mad that my reaction when you tried to tell me wasn't what you wanted because I had crap to go on. Years, House, for years I asked you about these things. And little did I know, you had a catalogue of all the answers sitting here in your apartment. That file. That file has pain ratings, your thoughts on other drugs and methods. The fact that you tried other drugs and methods, and didn't bother to mention it. God House, you could have told me," Wilson was speaking quickly and emphatically, having trouble containing himself. "You should have told me. Do you know how much easier things could have been if you just told me?"

"Ah yes, let's never forget the toll that _my_ _pain_ has taken on you. Oh, how _you've_ _suffered_. You poor thing, having to deal with being able-bodied and pain free all these years must have been oh so hard."

"Don't House." Wilson said holding up a hand to stop House. Wilson knew he needed to hang on to every bit of his anger to get anything accomplished in this conversation. He looked at House studying him. The blue eyes were ripe with indignation, but behind that, Wilson could see the vulnerability remained, and he softened his tone a bit before continuing.

"I can't imagine how hard all of this has been for you. But if you had told me about some of the things in that file, I'd have had a much better idea a hell of a lot sooner."

"Yeah well, focusing on the past is always the best way to move forward, I always say," House tried to hide the fact that he winced when he shifted to reach for his Vicodin. His leg, shoulder, and everything else were killing him after his in-shower tumbling act. He downed one and took another sip of the juice Wilson had brought with him. Wilson stayed absolutely silent and did not let his expression falter while House took the pill. He knew what House meant, and that House was gauging his reaction to House's pain and pills now that he knew what he knew.

"Look, I wish you'd have told me about all this stuff sooner, when it happened. But for whatever reason, you didn't. Fine, I get that. You want to move forward, than tell me that it'll be different. That you'll be more open with me about this stuff from now on."

"Because that's worked so well for me in the past. I'm really looking forward to more placebos and psychobabble. Oh, and you know what's super fun, detoxing for your pleasure. Especially, when you and Cuddy decide to throw out basic medical knowledge like how physical dependence and withdrawal symptoms do not equal addiction. Jeez, the first year med students know better."

"Ah yes, focusing on the past is always the best way to move forward, you always say," Wilson snarked back. "I was wrong House, I get it, but then again, I had crap to go on. I'm willing to accept my mistakes and work with you, but that means you have to work with me too. I need you to be more honest with me. Besides just think, if you tell me everything, and I'm still wrong, well then, you get to be all mad and self-righteous and rub it in my face. Right now, you've given me a hell of a defense. I'm putting a lot on the line here lying to the cops. I'd like to know that it won't happen again." Wilson paused before going on. He reached over and touched House's hand looking straight into his eyes. "You can trust me House. Whether I want to throw you across the room, or I want to kiss you, you can trust me."

House sighed wearily. He knew Wilson had a point, and he couldn't shake the feeling that he owed him something given this whole legal mess, and the forged prescription. The fall earlier, and so many instances like it, reminded him that having someone on his side who he could depend on was something he needed. He nodded tightly. "I don't like making promises I can't keep, but I'll try," he said sincerely. "Now did my ears deceive me, or was there a proposition for more kissing in there." House shifted quickly from serious and somber to playful. "I knew you were easy."

"You're incorrigible," Wilson mused, feeling triumphant that he had actually gotten through to House for a change, and content to let this be enough for now. They had both been through too much recently.

"You wouldn't want me any other way," House said smiling as he pulled Wilson back towards him. Maybe being more open with Wilson wouldn't be so bad, he thought to himself.


	7. Chapter 7

Wilson sat staring at House, processing what had just occurred. He could still taste the kiss they had been locked in before he was abruptly pushed away. He still craved the closeness they had held moments before.

Pain and frustration were written in the lines on House's face. Wilson read in them what had transpired. They must have moved the wrong way for House's abused body. And so he sat, cast aside, unsure how to approach, but knowing he had to.

"Oh good, we're back to the sulking silence," he said, testing the waters once House had gathered himself and shifted to stony silence.

"Not a good time to push," House said tightly. Between the pain and the exasperation that it left him unable to enjoy even these small pleasures, he wasn't sure he could take much more.

"You mean there's actually a good time? Please let me in on the schedule," Wilson said bitterly. He didn't take rejection from House well.

"Stop," House said angrily.

"No, you don't get to be mad here. You stole my prescriptions. You jeopardized my license. You were ready to throw away the only two things that work for me…again. You don't get to be mad here and I get to know why." Wilson could feel his anger and righteousness building as he spoke. He had gone through so many emotions tonight, he shifted among them with an ease and rapidity more characteristic of House.

"You've already gotten to know more than you deserve tonight," House replied tiredly still uncertain about the decision to share his pain with Wilson and Stacy.

"Look, we both know you rationalize even your emotions. So, why do you think you're entitled to be angry?" Wilson persisted more gently.

"You know, you tout this whole 'I only have two things that work for me' line like it's some damn badge of courage. How many things do you think I have?" House said hoping it would be enough.

"No, that's not all, that just makes you mad at the world. Why are you mad at me, House?"

"You laughed at me," House mumbled, knowing truth was the route he had to take tonight.

"What?" Wilson asked, unsure what he had heard.

"I came to you when the Ketamine started wearing off, when the damn pain started coming back and you laughed at me. You didn't even consider that I might have a clue about the difference between a sore muscle and the pain I've lived with for all these years." House said, resenting not only Wilson's past betrayal, but also his present demand that they talk about it. He didn't want to have to admit that Wilson's failure to support him, to protect him, had hurt as much as the failure of the Ketamine. He didn't want to admit that this was part of why Wilson finally knowing the truth about his pain and its management was so scary. Up until now, when Wilson didn't understand his pain, he could take solace in the fact that Wilson didn't have all the facts, but what was House going to do now if Wilson still didn't believe him? Still didn't support him?

Wilson felt his heart drop into his stomach. He remembered the day House had come to him. He had laughed and made a big show of putting away his prescription pad. He hadn't even tried to listen. He had wanted so badly for the Ketamine to be a permanent success that he ignored the reality of the situation. House had come to him, and he had failed him, again. He placed his hands on House's cheeks and held House's face inches from his own.

"I'm sorry House. I was wrong," he said sincerely.

"Whatever, it's fine," House said pulling away.

"Yeah, that's us, fine, fine, fine," Wilson said wishing things were different. He quickly halted this wishful thinking, still feeling the sting of just how much his penchant for denial had cost him, cost both of them. They sat in silence once more.

"Look, I admit it, I screwed up. I was wrong, but I didn't deserve this," Wilson said, growing frustrated by House's impenetrable fortress mode.

"We so rarely get what we deserve," House said at last. "I had no way of predicting psycho-cop was going to turn up," he continued, sounding at once casual and defensive.

"But he did. So, what do we do now?" Wilson asked, truly curious.

"Now? We go to bed," House answered matter-of-factly, because it was really all he wanted to do.

"Just like that?"

"Either what we've done tonight will be enough, and this will all resolve soon, or it won't and we'll have to come up with something else," House said.

Wilson found House's way of distilling even the most complicated situations into the simplest of terms simultaneously infuriating and endearing. He couldn't help but smile as he looked over at his friend. The ease with which House was now using the word we was hopeful. His levity quickly faded when he really took in House's appearance though. He was clearly exhausted and hurting. From falling, to revealing the struggle he tried so hard to keep hidden, to seeing Stacy, to having to talk about his feelings, the evening had left him deflated and weary.

He was also right though. There was nothing more they could accomplish tonight. Things seemed on their way to being better than they had been in a long time between the two of them, but they were much too raw to heal over night.

"Why don't you go ahead, I'm just going to clean up a little," Wilson said already heading toward the kitchen. He knew House would be craving space and privacy after feeling so exposed tonight. He didn't want to make any assumptions about where he'd be spending the night.

It was Wilson's willingness to give him space that made House want to keep him close. "Just remember to hit the lights when you come in," he said simply.

**Part 7b**

House was in bed, but tense and taught when Wilson entered the bedroom. He was so still Wilson wondered how he was even moving air into his lungs. Pain was etched into his face. Wilson wondered if sharing the bed was a good idea. He didn't want to cause House any more pain, and after reading the file he held in his hands, he was unsure of so many things. He needed time to digest.

He watched as House finally let out a long slow breath, seeming to relax.

"Hey," House said realizing Wilson was there. He was slightly embarrassed by his body's frailty. This had not been how he imagined Wilson's return to his bed, but he was too sore to fool around. He remembered the last time he and Wilson had been together. It had been too long, he thought to himself.

He noticed the binder in Wilson's hands and sighed. Wilson realized what he was looking at.

"Just wanted to go through this stuff some more, be ready when Stacy calls in the morning," he explained as he stripped down to his boxers.

House sighed unhappily again.

"What?" Wilson asked, climbing into bed.

"Nothing, I just wish things could have been different," House replied sounding disappointed.  
"You mean you wish you didn't have to show me this," Wilson said, holding up the binder.  
"Yeah," House admitted. 

"Well, I wish I had seen this years ago, so I guess this is a fair middle ground," Wilson reasoned, inching a hand closer to House.  
"There's nothing fair about it," House groused.  
"Maybe not, but it's where we are."  
"So it is."

"For what it's worth, while I wish you would have shown me this stuff sooner, I'm sorry for making it harder," Wilson said sincerely.

House just nodded.

"Well?" Wilson prompted.

"Well what?"

"You could have made things easier too," Wilson said, getting flustered.

"Hey, I already apologized once tonight. I'm good for a month at least. Besides, I'm the patient, it's not my job to make things easier," House said in his best petulant child tone. 

"You're…impossible, difficult, awful, right. I should have listened. I should have made it my business to know this stuff even if you didn't want to tell me." Wilson knew he didn't need to add that that's what House would have done. They both knew it was true.

"Whatever."

"I'm serious," Wilson insisted.  
"I know you are, and I'm sure you really mean it," House said, looking away. 

"But?"

"But nothing," House replied, trying to sound convincing. 

"Right," Wilson said in disbelief.

"What do you want me to say? I believe you genuinely think you are going to try to listen better when I tell you it hurts. I believe that you genuinely are sorry that you missed whatever you think you missed that you see now after reading that file. But, I also believe that if you're not living with it day in and day out, it's easily forgotten. We've done this before. This is how it was way back in the beginning. Every once in a while you or Cuddy or someone sees something and gets it in your heads that the pain is real and that it hurts, and you're sincere about it. I know you are, but it doesn't last. You don't have to remember that it's always there, always sucks, and really I don't want you to. You had no idea and it's all my fault, but tell me how much of an idea do you need to have when you know how many pills I take. It's much easier to think of House the addict than House the cripple, isn't it?" House said tiredly.

"Maybe, sometimes, yeah, but partly because it's the role you prefer," Wilson defended, unsettled by how calm House was. He wasn't arguing, or ranting, he was simply stating the way things were, which only made Wilson feel worse.  
"Maybe so, but what would you have me do?" House wondered aloud.

"You don't have to put on an act all the time," Wilson said shifting towards House.

"Well, it must be working because no one would give me drugs today. Even Cuddy said she was only doing it because if she refused me it would give the cops evidence that I don't really need the meds. Like it was some forgone conclusion that I don't need them."

Wilson felt rage bubbling in his chest. Rage for House. He wanted to rage at Cuddy and himself for treating House the way they had.

"I wish it were different House, I really do."

"Well…everybody wishes something," House jested. He was done with the serious talk for tonight.

"You've gone from everybody lies to everybody wishes? Did you suddenly become an

optimist while I was in the bathroom?" Wilson replied easily with a smile. This felt good.

"I didn't say everybody gets what they wish. Hell, most of them are probably lying because they know they'll never get what they wish."

"Most of them or most of us?" Wilson questioned.

"I liked you better when you were anti-semantic."

"What are my chances of actually getting a straight answer?" Wilson asked.

"Probably similar to your chances of getting lucky tonight," House replied easily.

"Well, then I've got some reading to do," Wilson said turning back to the materials in his lap.

"Fine, read. Go ahead and agonize over things you've already read," House whined.

"At least it's still fresh, as opposed to the tired lines you insist on feeding me," Wilson countered.

"You're still mad," House stated impatiently.

"Hmm…learning you've been lying to my face for years, not exactly anger-quelling. And let's not forget the whole forging my prescriptions mess," Wilson maintained.

"I'd say I'm not the only one who offers a steady diet of tired lines. I'm going to sleep while the getting's good," House said letting his exhaustion sweep over him. Things weren't what passed for normal between him and Wilson yet, but they were on their way.

"Good night House," Wilson said, draping a few fingers across one of House's hands.

"Good night Wilson," House said, feeling more at peace than he had in a long time as he shut his eyes.


	8. Chapter 8

House was right, everybody lied

House was right, everybody lied. Wilson was no exception. He had let himself believe he was the warm one, the one who cared, but he had been too careless. He had been cold and believed his own lies and House's so thoroughly that reality had stopped mattering.

He brought out the calendar on his palm pilot and went over House's entries, they showed steadily increasing pain ratings from around the time he had treated Andy, long before House had sent Stacy away. He read House's notes on alternative treatments like the Ketamine and intrathecal morphine, and his consult of a pain specialist in New York at that time. The entries only contained facts, only the objective, but Wilson could feel House's desperation and indignation in them.

He suspected this binder held in it not only the truth of House's reality, but of his reality checks as well. House didn't write about his feelings of pain or humiliation at asking his most trusted friends, Wilson and Cuddy, for help only to be rejected and made a fool of. But there they were in black and white, the cold hard facts that House had sought for comfort when his friends had utterly failed to offer any.

_A placebo is any medical treatment that works because of its therapeutic intent rather than its chemical or physical properties. Studies have disproven the widely held myth that if a placebo relieves pain, the pain can't be severe. Placebos cannot be used to distinguish real pain of physical origin from psychogenic pain.  
In a double blind study of patients with cancer pain that was classified as moderate to severe, 77 percent obtained relief from placebos. Placebos can produce measurable physiologic effects such as increasing serum cortisone or decreasing blood sugar.  
Responders to placebos tend to be professionals, those with higher levels of education, people recently divorced, widowed or separated, working women and farmers. Unskilled workers, housewives, married women without children, those with low level education and smokers tend to be nonresponders._

_Physical pain is in fact more likely to respond to placebo than anxiety or psychogenic pain.  
The highly motivated and highly educated are more likely to respond to placebo than people with less education or those who are less compliant. _

_Placebogenic situations arise from a high but reasonable expectation of benefit in an environment of trust. Placebo effects tend to decrease rapidly over time, and a placebo will not work if the patient is aware that he is not receiving the medication expected._

_Pain Rating:8/10_

Wilson felt a familiar sting in his nostrils as hot tears made their way to the surface. He let them fall. They had been so wrong. The angry scrawl left no mistake that House knew they were wrong and was as pissed as he had every right to be. He had expected the intrathecal morphine to provide him with relief, it was his well-researched back up plan for when the pain became unbearable. He fit the profile of a responder perfectly. He had trusted them and they'd failed.

Wilson wanted desperately to talk to House, Cuddy, the pain specialist House had consulted, but didn't want to wake House and knew he couldn't talk to Cuddy or the specialist without House's permission.

Instead he went to the fax machine and copied this and other entries that held information he never wanted to forget. House was right, when things went back to normal, all of this would be easy to forget. Wilson needed to remind himself. He couldn't change what had been, but he could make damn sure to do better from now on. He poured himself a drink and wallowed in his own sadness and dejection. He needed to let himself feel this. After a time, he put it away, ready to focus on House.

House was right, he was the patient, it wasn't his job to make things easier. Wilson watched him sleep. His anger was sure to rear its head again some time, but for now all he felt was regret and remorse.

He still wished House had told him more of these things, but also realized that if the situation had been reversed, Wilson wouldn't have had to tell House about any increases in pain or alternative treatments, House would have known. He'd have made it his business to know even if it required huge violations of privacy. It was his way. He didn't understand that others needed to be told things because he just figured them out.


End file.
